


van gogh's sunflowers

by inkwelled



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dialogue Light, Disney References, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gentle Kissing, Hair Washing, Healing, Implied Sexual Content, Late Night Conversations, Minor Injuries, Musical Instruments, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Slice of Life, Slow Dancing, Sunsets, Team as Family, peter and mantis are half-siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-08 13:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15244158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: - loving that he and she alikeor, peter and gamora ficlets that needed a hometitle;yellowby warren





	1. all of us shining, and this light is ours

**Author's Note:**

> this is the brain child of a late-night twitter conversation with lyssa on how much we both missed these two and how we were both so starved of simple, soft content, especially post-iw. 
> 
> chapter title; [care in darkness](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2599449/care-in-darkness/) by maxim

“Ouch!” Peter yelps, childish, shying away from her slightly to bring a hand to his face. “That hurt!”  
  
From her place across from him on their bed, Gamora sighs. “You are a child. It will not hurt if you don’t move. Now, sit.”  
  
Begrudgingly, Peter scoots forward again until his knees knock hers and she inspects the area that the blade supposedly nicked. The skin is slightly red and when a single drop of blood collects at the surface, she swipes it away.  
  
“Good as new,” she declares, and Peter nods, eyes already closed again, and she gets back to work.  
  
His legs are bracketed around her own crossed ones, in a fashion she once heard him describe as a crossed apple sauce – whatever an apple is – and for a while, the only sound is the blade against his skin. He eventually relaxes into the fingers on his chin again and she smiles softly, observing his face as she goes.  
  
Gamora refuses to let her eyes stray far, too preoccupied with making sure she doesn’t hurt him up again, but notes the new line on his forehead disappearing when he closes his eyes and how up-close, his hair is more light than dark at the roots. The last few years had been kind not only to them but the team; and while he now has more laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, there’s a few stubborn ones of concern that crease his forehead.   
  
Back on Zen-Whoberi, the braiding and touching of one’s hair was an intimate thing; as a child it was only to be done by family and as adults signaled trust and a bond going _far_ beyond companionship. The first time she had let Peter braid her hair she had been shaky and nervous - this is the first time she’s done his and she doesn’t want the memory tainted by the Terran insects in her stomach.  
  
Butterflies?  
  
Sometime during her work on the lower part of his jaw, Peter had started humming. She doesn’t remember exactly when except that Mantis had passed by their bunk, wishing them a good rest and Peter had opened his eyes, smiled, and repaid the pleasantry to his half-sister. _Love you!_ he had called before she walked away and Mantis had blushed before ducking away.

Now, under her careful ministrations as she shaves his face carefully around his sideburns and curious mustache, she smiles and leans in, temporarily removing the small blade. She can feel his smile when she presses her lips to his and when she pulls away not long after, he’s still smiling.  
  
“What was that for?” he whispers as his eyes flutter, eyelashes soft against his cheek and she doesn’t break his gaze, finding herself smiling softly back. Under the dimmed lights of their bunk, everything is a little fuzzier, a little more intimate and she doesn’t know why, but whispering seems appropriate.   
  
“Smiling will increase the chance of you being cut again,” she chides without any real venom and he mockingly turns his smile into an exaggerated frown.  
  
“Sorry,” he says, voice deeper as he tries to keep his mouth in the same unusual spot and she smiles wider. With his mouth still twisted, he tries again. “What was that for, m’lady?”  
  
Ignoring the second part, Gamora nods once, concise. “Apology accepted.”

“ _’Mora_ ,” he whines but she just clucks her tongue and he shifts before closing his eyes again.

Such a simple action, closing his eyes, but the significance isn’t lost on her. She’s holding a small blade very closer to his skin, so close it’s literally cutting hair, and the smallest movement could hurt him again, yet he trusts her enough to do so. 

She revels in the knowledge.

For a few minutes, there’s silence again until she removes the blade from his chin, taps his knee twice, and he twists. Peter moves his legs from around her to hanging off the bed, torso facing a different way as she starts on his other cheekbone, and next door there’s the faint noise of Groot humming.  
  
“Rocket was supposed to make sure he went to bed,” Peter grouses without affliction and she sighs, sits back.   
  
“By this rate, I will not finish before we reach Xandar.”  
  
Peter chuckles, teeth glinting briefly. “Babe, that’s in two days. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. “  
  
She frowns, swishing the blade in a small bowl of water before tapping it against the side – like he showed her. “Exactly my point,” she drawls, and places her other hand under his chin. “So please stay still.”  
  
Next door, Groot is still humming and this time Peter doesn’t close his eyes. Although she isn’t looking back, she finds she can feel his gaze on her. Without breaking concentration on the straight underline of his sideburn, Gamora says “what?” and Peter’s voice lifts with what she recognizes is a smile.  
  
“I love you, that’s all.”  
  
Her hand stops immediately upon his face for a second, her heart skipping a beat even all these years later, and it takes everything in her not to smile. She knows it’s obvious though as she resolutely doesn’t look at Peter but continues. “Oh Mr. Quill, give a girl a little warning next time.”  
  
Peter doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “Noted, Ms. Gamora,” he chuckles and when she leans forward this time, they meet in the middle. Her hands – free from her rings in anticipation of sleep – frame his face and he wraps his own around her middle, resting on her back.

Underneath them, the bedspread is soft, worn with years of use and when she tilts her head slightly, running her tongue along the soft seam of his mouth, he moans. Inside, she smiles as his arms tighten around her and she wants to scoot closer, lean him back against the blankets, and hear him moan over and over.  
  
Eventually, though, he has to come up for air - Terran lungs are a curious thing – and she makes a mournful sound as he rests his forehead against hers. As he breathes out into their shared atmosphere, she drops the small blade into the water bowl and disregards everything else. She knows it sloshes onto the blankets; she feels droplets on her hand that Peter reaches for and brushes off.

Hunger curls in her belly and she’s tempted to skim her fingers along the hem of his shirt and explore a body she knows as well as her own, but she has to finish. Only partly disappointed, she picks up the blade and continues, not saying a word until she sits back, satisfied with her work. “I think I’ve done it,” she announces, and Peter’s returning grin is contagious.  
  
“Yeah?” He whispers and she nods, carefully pushing the bowl from between their bodies and swiping a curl from off his forehead. He’s fresh from the showers and the humidity in their cabin has his hair curling far rulier than usual.

She loves it.

“Yes,” she says, and plans to say nothing else are founded in good faith as she combs her fingers through movement-rumpled curls and Peter’s fingers splay against her ribs.

There’s a million and one things to do before they dock on Xandar in two days; wounds to mend, supplies to be replenished, repairs to their ship completed, but she allows this moment to stretch into infinity. In the end, she hears him moan more than once into her mouth and she grins each time, laying him back against the blankets and bending down – from her place perched above his hips – to press her lips against the newly-shove skin and every other place she can reach.

Faintly, Gamora hears the water bowl tip over onto the floor but Peter just chuckles breathlessly into her neck and she sits up to divest him of his shirt. With bated breath she runs her palms over the pale planes of his stomach, watching the muscles undulate underneath the pads of her fingertips, and eventually the kisses slow.

Peter flips her over, hair splaying out underneath her head, and he cradles her body with his own before kissing her deeply. She groans – so loud against the silence of their room but quiet in the infinite of space she feels is still between them – and wraps her own arms around his neck, pulling him closer, but it’s not enough.

For her, it’s never enough.

Eventually, wandering fingers find a home within her own and they lay on their sides, still in rumpled underclothes, and Peter presses his lips to her forehead once, twice. Maybe they lay like that for a minute or maybe a year – she doesn’t know, but finds herself falling in love all over again with his eyes.

His smile soft, he whispers “what?” and she feels her own mouth turning upwards as she brushes a curl back from his eyes. It’s been a lifetime and she finds herself smiling wider and more often, surrounded by everything she once thought she would never deserve.

“I love you,” she says, and her heart flutters at the open, loving look in Peter’s eyes as he pulls her closer. He rolls onto his back, taking her with him, and she falls asleep to the steady beat of his heart, pounding _I love you too_ into her fingertips and thrumming throughout her entire body.


	2. collected on windowsills, a household's aura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cabin is deep in the woods, three miles and a long hike from the nearest town, in total isolation. Almost three years ago, after a particularly hard mission not on their bodies but their minds, Peter and Gamora had taken a pod to Terra and found the small structure after crashing from lack of fuel. They had the dragged the other through the door, wiped the dust from the windows, and had slept three days away under the softening influence of sunlight that she had never seen before and he had missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> credit for this is due to pinterest, for supplying me with aesthetics of [the sunroom](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/296815431662340093/) and [the chair](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/775533998307425438/)
> 
> title; [sunlight blossoming](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2517735/sunlight-blossoming/) by poetic t

“Hey, ‘Mora-”

He rounds the corner through the flung-wide double doors of the sunroom, and freezes. According to the dust-layered calendar on the wall, Terra is in the middle of the transition from spring to summer and hazy shafts of light filter through the glass, illuminating everything in the almost-empty in a dream-like glow.

Leaning against the frame, Peter smiles. Curled up in the only piece of furniture in the room is Gamora, dead asleep. Under the sunlight and smoothed with sleep, he doesn’t see the cuts on her face or the bruises on her neck, the lines that mar her forehead from stress. The heady glow highlights the crinkles around her mouth and eyes, a reminder of however hard the missions have been, the years haven’t been all too un-kind to them.

The cabin is deep in the woods, three miles and a long hike from the nearest town, in total isolation. Almost three years ago, after a particularly hard mission not on their bodies but their minds, Peter and Gamora had taken a pod to Terra and found the small structure after crashing from lack of fuel. They had the dragged the other through the door, wiped the dust from the windows, and had slept three days away under the softening influence of sunlight that she had never seen before and he had missed.

Their last trip had warranted a trip to a fairly obscure store to pick up the necessary pieces of furniture for their newly-acquired space (a thanks for their help from Stark), and as Peter tried to remember what was too much for a couch, Gamora had perused the aisles.

He had looked up just in time to see her run her fingers over the arm of an oversized, sunny-yellow chair, boasting a high back and solid, carved legs. She had caught him looking, cleared her throat, and declared she would look at the plates, then wait in the car.

As she walked away, Peter had smiled and waved over an employee.

The next day, along with the navy-blue couch and the table at the end of their bed, Gamora had walked into the sunroom to sit on the blanket she had laid out only to find the chair she had adored, accompanied by a simple side table.

It was no surprise to find her there, whenever Peter couldn’t find her. He could walk by the open doors any time of day to find her reading whatever she had picked up from their latest trip into town, or simply staring out the newly-polished glass to marvel at the world.

 _I never knew there was so much green in the entire galaxy,_ she had whispered yesterday, when he brought her a mug of tea and brushed a kiss to her forehead. She had closed her eyes indulgently at the touch of their skin and sighed as she wrapped her hands around the ceramic piece.

 _One day,_ he had whispered back, unknowing of why they were whispering but unwilling to spoil the atmosphere, _I’ll show you all the green everywhere in the galaxy, starting right here._

He had fallen asleep with Gamora curled against his ribs, under new sheets in a bed far from their perceived notion of home, but both perfectly content. The morning had brought sleepy, languid kisses and light bickering about who stole the blankets but the night before but the bruises on his collarbone weren’t violence-inflicted. She had sighed happily when he traced the skin between the hems of her night-clothes and pulled him closer, until he couldn’t find where his skin ended and hers began, too wrapped up in each other to see, or care.

They didn’t untangle the blankets from their legs or each other until the sun had crawled high in the sky and his stomach had rumbled unhappily, swiftly met with a giggle and light poke from Gamora. He had smiled, pulled her into the small bathroom and closed the glass doors around them, let the warm shower steam up the air until both of them were flushed and scrubbed clean.

His fingertips still smell of her shampoo even now – something strong yet flowery, whatever the large store in town had sold and she had grabbed – hours after he massaged the soap into her hair and kissed the crown of her head when she tipped it back against his chest.

Leaving the shower, even if it was to find something for both of them to eat as a late breakfast, was one of the hardest decisions he could remember making in a long time. A few minutes later Gamora had padded out of the steam-billowing room in one of his new button-up shirts and simple undergarments, and he had smiled from the stove.

Peter may not remember much about Terra from his measly eight years of life here, but he remembered the art of making scrambled eggs, a common breakfast in the Quill household. He cracked eggs against the edge of a sparkling pan as Gamora wrapped her arms around his middle, raised onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek before sliding onto a stool across from him.

After breakfast she had disappeared without a word. Peter had left a note, telling her he was going out for a few things before promising to be back before the sun set, and she had retreated to the sunroom, empty except for a lazily-napping O’Malley.

A stray found napping in the sunroom after sneaking in through a hole in the wall, O’Malley was a scrawny kitten who had hissed when Peter came near yet immediately grew attached to Gamora, and she had declared they would keep it. O’Malley had thrown Peter a scary, almost human-like smirk before snuggling deeper into their arms and since then, the two had learned to tolerate each other.

Gamora’s legs are thrown over one arm, her back propped against the other and her head rests tuckered near her chin, where O’Malley yawns before licking her chin and going back to sleep. For this moment, there is peace, no wars to fight or people to hunt down and deliever, and only the barely-visible pod beyond the trees reminds him this isn’t permanent.

For now though, he crosses the room and takes a place on the floor, leaning back against the chair and opening his book. It’s been over three decades and he’s slowly re-learning how to read English with every page of books from shelves from dusty bookstores tucked into alleyways.

The next thing he knows, Gamora’s knee is knocking his shoulder and he’s awake instantly. His glass of water with the ice cubes completely melted has created a ring of condensation on the floorboards and he stretches, reveling in the pop of his shoulders when he does.

Above him, he hears the movement of fabric and turns to smile at Gamora as she bends to press a sleep-softened kiss to his lips.

“Good morning,” she hums against his lips and he laughs, twists his torso completely and wraps his arms around her neck before burying his nose in the junction of skin untarnished by scars.

“Technically,” he drawls, watching as the sunlight bathes her face in an ethereal glow and glitters off the deep scars of her implants he so loves to trace and assure her are not repulsive, “it’s afternoon.”

For a while, there’s silence as they both soak in the other’s presence and the warmth surrounding them that isn’t the sun. Then O’Malley meows, loud, and uses Peter’s shoulder to vault onto the floor – but not without digging in his claws first.

Peter yelps, hand going up to clutch his shoulder as he shoots the blasted thing a glare. Gamora laughs, loud and boisterous and perfect, and he forgets his irritation as he finds her slipping from the chair and into his lap.

Gamora settles her legs on top of his, backside between his knees and her own knees bracketing his hips, and they watch the sun begin to dip beneath the river that stretches beyond the windows and the life they’ve made behind and around them.

“Hell of a life,” he says, and she pulls him close, until the sides of their head are almost touching, and with her gaze still solely locked on the sunset, smiles.

“Hell of a life,” she agrees, and kisses him with the heat of the sleeping sun, under the colors of a thousand paintings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the only dialogue here was lines from other movies, but i couldn't help myself, and both instances from two of my favorite movies. anyone recognize them? i also want to thank the two people that commented on the last chapter, i loved reading your reviews!
> 
> author's note (that has no relevance to the plot);  
> \- this takes place about three years after infinity war  
> \- the tea peter brings gamora in the flashback is chamomile, which happened to be both gamora and meredith's favorite and peter wonders how the two would've gotten along if they ever met  
> \- gamora names the cat o'malley because when they get back to earth, peter shows her the aristocats, another favorite of his mother's and she loves it


	3. the sun lacing through the leaves in your smile, my sunshine (i never imagined i’d find my home in a person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to Peter and the books she’s recently acquired to learn all about the rich knowledge depths of Terra, spring is the beginning. It brings new life; not only to the environment but the people, a sign to emerge from the depths of the harsh winter and begin again. It represents a chance to start again, a second chance, and she lets the bowl slip from her sudsy fingers.
> 
> It’s something she knows well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspiration drawn from [this post](https://starmoraquills.tumblr.com/post/165026492555/need-more-domestic-starmora-like-making-a) by starmoraquills on tumblr.
> 
> title; [you are my home](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2602778/you-are-my-home/) by marisol quiroz
> 
> p.s - the idea of them owning a cabin is really growing on me, so unless stated otherwise (ex; a specified au), the drabble will probably take place in their little place in the woods

If she’s honest, Terra is nice.

Yes, there’s a few things she doesn’t like; their distrust of anyone not in physical appearance likeness, the noise, the obvious flippancy for the wellness of the environment in the larger cities, but overall, Gamora has no problems with her lover’s planet.

Except for the technology.

Terra is eons behind on technology, and she sighs for the third time in ten minutes as she scrubs at a piece of dried _something_ on a plate from a set she and Peter picked up. As the years pass, she finds them at this cabin in the woods more often than not, and while they pick up a machine that washes their clothes – much like the one on the Milano but louder – there’s nothing like the washer for the plates.

Peter explains Terra does have a dishwasher but she hates the thing from first sight; it’s hideous and isn’t good at its job so she buckles down and buries herself in suds to the elbows.

Next to her, Peter is humming along to a song filtering in through the small speaker on the counter and wiping a glass down with a soapy rag – a _washcloth._ Immediately to her right is a small dish that holds her rings and the sink is deep and filled to the brim with warm water that makes her skin flush dark.

For a while, it’s quiet. Against her neck, her hair is heavy with condensation from her shower and humidity settles on her skin, the air conditioner in the window ineffective as it rattles away. Peter had declared the piece of junk to have a certain charm but as she wipes away the perspiration on her forehead with her forearm, trying to avoid getting suds in her newly-washed hair, she thinks she should’ve protested.

It’s been five years since they bought the small cabin near the water but she still has much to learn about this abundantly-growing planet and the quirks that come with it.

Outside the window directly over the sink, a bluebird burrows further into her nest for the night and lays her wings over her young. Gamora smiles, imagining the tiny cheeps from the Terran animals she’s grown quite fond of – even though some of them, according to Peter, are not as friendly – and the music swells.

Then she feels arms encircle her waist, a chin on her shoulder and she hums. “You should be working; these dishes will not clean themselves.”

“If we had bought a dishwasher-”

Gamora snorts, cutting him off, scrubbing at a bowl she distinctly remembers once held something called _oatmeal_. “I refuse to buy something that will not do its job very well, it is inefficient and wastes money.”

Behind her, Peter chuckles and starts to sway them. Although she keeps her feet stubbornly planted to the floor, she allows her shoulders to move to the song, something soft and slow and new, a now-favorite of his.

“Dance with me,” he says, she shakes her head, head yelling to continue the dishes because her feet are starting to hurt while her heart pounds _yes yes yes_ against the cage of her ribs.

“If I do not finish these, they will not get done,” she argues and she feels when he frowns in good fun.

Peter tilts his head against her, breathing in the clean and reassuring scent of _her,_ and whines into her hair. _“Gamoraaaaa.”_

Outside the window, the afternoon sunlight hides and peeks through the green and yellow leaves, teasing warmth before fleeing, and she smiles. The last few trips to Terra had been during the cold months, something called _Winter,_ and while she had loved the coldness on her cheeks and the feeling of _snow_ in-between her fingers and in her hair, the sharp cleanness in her mouth as she kissed Peter, she thinks this is her favorite season.

Spring.

According to Peter and the books she’s recently acquired to learn all about the rich knowledge depths of Terra, spring is the beginning. It brings new life; not only to the environment but the people, a sign to emerge from the depths of the harsh winter and begin again. It represents a chance to start again, a second chance, and she lets the bowl slip from her sudsy fingers.

It’s something she knows well.

“I suppose one dance won’t hurt,” she declares, and spins in his arms.

The look of surprise on Peter’s face when smiles up at him makes her chuckle. The song has switched, to something she recognizes better, and watches as an adoring grin washes over Peter’s face at the opening cords.

_I know I laughed, when you left…_

This time, it’s Gamora that pulls Peter close. He responds easily, his hand on her hip like second nature, as if it was made to fit into the curve of her body and she’s in love. Their hands are dripping wet, running rivers of soap down their arms and making large splotches on the soft shirts from the Milano they’d brought but she finds she doesn’t mind.

She is here, he with her, and they’ve started over.

In a few minutes, Rocket will call and inform them to get their asses back into space for another mission, and they’ll trudge down the hall to their room, where a duffel waits. Their trips to Terra seem to grow shorter and shorter, never enough, and she wonders what the future will hold for this life they’ve built on a planet that once laid beyond their grasp.

When Peter speaks, it feels far away as they sway to the shadows casted on the warped wooden floors, put there by the sun and the leaves and the knowledge night is approaching and so is their time to leave. O’Malley whines to be let out and she rests her head on his chest, the only part of him she can reach without the boots in the closet.

“I know we’ll come back but I always miss this place when we leave.”

She hums in agreement, looking around the small common room. There’s the navy couch, pillows still creased from their fun the night before and the cuddling afterwards, the small table with the chips he had bought from an old woman in town with its mismatched chairs and creaky legs.

It’s a good life.

“Maybe one day,” he says, and she looks up at the hesitant tone, “we’ll stay?”

She must looked shocked because he blinks, and plows ahead, the swaying stopped.

“Sorry if that made you uncomfortable,” Peter chuckles nervously, “I didn’t mean to spring that on you! I just thought that with your obvious love for the sunroom and O’Malley you would consider coming back here in a few years and staying-”

Gamora surges up, kisses the rest of his words away and tangles her fingers in the wet roots of his curls. Familiar, Peter wraps his arms around her back and when she lowers herself back onto the heels of her feet, he keeps her close.

“I take that as a yes?” he breathes into the quiet room, the unfamiliar strains of a song behind them and she feels the sides of her lips lift, so reassuring that she leans back in, kisses the corner of his lips.

“Yes,” she breathes, and the way Peter’s face lights up sends spiraling warmth throughout her entire body until she thinks she is the sunlight and the spring.

This is her second chance, her new beginning, and when the communicator on the counter buzzes with an incoming comm, she disregards it to lean back in.

Peter meets her halfway, and yeah, she thinks, _staying won’t be so bad._

As long as she’s here – with Peter in her arms and the birds outside and O’Malley scratching at the door, the ladies in town that invite her to quiet places for tea and the men that wave to Peter in the square – she’s happy.

Maybe, she thinks later as they board the small ship made for their trips to this place with the warm sunshine and quiet love, this is the home she’s longed after for so long. It’s not a location, but a _people._ Home is the woman in the ship in space, a sister reconciled. Home is the man next to her, hands flexing on the controls as he lifts off and smiles at her across the cockpit. Home is the empath and the warrior and the mechanic and the flora colossus.

When Mantis greets them after they dock, Gamora pulls the girl into a hug and relishes in the feeling in her chest. Drax raises a hand in acknowledgement, Rocket nods distractedly while instructing Groot on how to build an arrow-rig, and Nebula pats her on the shoulder in passing.

She’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next drabble was inspired by [this poem](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2604514/alabama-draggin/) and is an au based off a well-beloved piece of literature. any guesses? i'll see you guys in a few days!
> 
> feel free to come yell at me about these two lovebirds on my twitter (@qvillsgamora) or tumblr (@nymphrva)


	4. placing fingers between your lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When she first hears it, Gamora thinks it’s a fluke in her cybernetics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started out as a purely fluff prompt from [this](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/174372576804/imagine-your-otp-person-a-singing-one-half-of-a) but quickly developed into a hurt/comfort, post-injury fic with just enough angst to satisfy me. as always, enjoy!
> 
> title; [shower together](url) by sainche micano

When she first hears it, Gamora thinks it’s a fluke in her cybernetics. 

Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised. It’s been two days since she woke from a job she could barely remember that reportedly went south according to Peter, and her implants are still glitching from the hit to her neck. Rocket had to be the one to dig beneath her skin and find the plate, pry it open and totally restart the system that would let her heal at an accelerated rate. 

Scoffing, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Accelerated rate, her ass. She now knows what Peter feels like whenever he gets hurt on missions; stranded, helpless. 

She hates it. 

Ignoring the spinning in her head when she stands, she wobbles before placing her hand on the wall. She’s only in one of Peter’s shirts and pair of boxers; it’s the loosest thing they could find to give her implants time to heal both themselves and her skin. Her hair hangs limp in front of her, tangled out of a braid that must have been done during her time in coma-sleep, and she’s just shaking off the sound as an issue with her mainframe before it comes again, louder this time. 

It’s coming from the showers. 

The Milano has two shower rooms; the communal one and the private Captain’s one. The one connected to her and Peter’s quarters are only a few steps away from the bed but she stumbles, cursing her ocular implants all the way. 

Stupid Thanos, stupid enhancements. 

Her implants don’t take up much of her body; nothing like Nebula’s, but still there for a purpose - or so the mad Titan had claimed. The panel in her neck connects the enhancements from her eyes, heart and lungs; she remembers the thin waver in Peter’s voice as he described the way her body just  _stopped_  moving when Rocket was finally able to access the chip. 

From the haunting, desperate look in his eyes, she almost writes off jumping in front of a shot meant for him. 

Almost. 

It may be slow, but she heals faster than him. There’s no chip in his neck either that will reboot is system if he loses 40% of his blood, no panel that displays what’s shutting down when opened. 

So she does what she needs to to keep him alive. If that means taking a shot meant for him, knowing she has a better chance of survival - she does it. 

“Peter?” she calls out, pushing open the door, but there’s no answer. What greets her instead is a steady roll of steam that immediately sets off her internal thermostat, but ignoring the buzzing in the back of her brain - a reminder that she’s still healing and for optimal results, must stay somewhere with a consistent temperature – she waves her hand. 

The condensation shifts as she moves forward, slowly revealing the worn tiles of the shower, and she stops dead when she realizes what the sound is. 

It’s Peter, singing. 

Head tilted towards the faucet, mouth wide open, her beloved stands in the shower and sings. It’s a song she’s never heard before, something about a Terran animal and all people wanting to be one, but the sight sends her heart racing. 

It’s such a quiet, intimate moment, and she doesn’t know whether to run or stay. 

Before she has the incentive to make either decision though, Peter spots her through the glass and steam and smiles, unabashedly unashamed of his nakedness. 

It’s not like she hasn’t seen it all before. 

“Mora!” His smile is tight though, concern instead of humor lacing at his eyes and he slides open the door quickly. “You shouldn’t be out of bed!” 

The steam billowing from behind the pane does nothing to hide his state of dress - or lack thereof - but he hurries over nonetheless and grasps her arm. 

“You need to sit,” he insists, guiding her slowly to the sink and she lets him. When she reaches the jutting structure it’s him that hoists her up onto it, who smoothes her hair back and scans her body for blood on the bandages. 

“Moving will increase the chance of the wounds re-opening,” Peter recites, a reminder of Rocket’s words, fussing, and she grabs his hand. 

“Peter.” 

He avoids her eyes, continues rambling. “Rocket said that you need to lay still and stay in an area with a consistent temperature for your implants to heal right, this isn’t good for them-“ 

“Peter.” 

Steamrolling right through, he starts to rummage through the drawers below the sink. “Now is a good time to make sure there’s no infection though and-“ 

“Peter!” 

She almost growls out his name, irritation flashing through her bones but it comes to a jarring jolt when he looks up. There’s huge bags under Peter’s eyes, a slump of his shoulders she’s never seen before, and the guilt thinly veiled by previously wandering eyes hits hard. 

“Oh Peter,” she whispers, hands coming up to frame his cheeks as she strokes a thumb under his eyes, and he sags into her. 

Ignoring the fact he’s warm and wet from the shower, as exposed as the day he was born, Gamora gingerly draws him close. He comes willingly, resting his forehead on the shoulder not wrapped with a thousand bandages, and when he breathes out unsteadily she’s left blinking back tears. 

“I’m okay,” she whispers, “I’m okay because you made the right decision and saved me.” 

“You wouldn’t have needed saving if it weren’t for me,” he says shakily against her neck and she frowns, draws his shoulders back. He refuses to meet her gaze until she clears her throat. 

“Peter.” 

His eyes dart to hers, then back to his hands as they clench around nothing. Voice hollow, he licks dry lips before murmuring, “we almost lost you - _I_ almost lost you,” and she brings him in for a kiss. 

Shuddering against her mouth, Peter melts into it. His fingertips are soft and careful as they come to rest lightly on her hips and she’s the one that pulls him closer. 

Before, this treatment would send her over the edge with irritation. She is not fragile, not something easily breakable but right now, with bandages on her neck and shoulder and ribs, she feels like glass. So she allows it. 

She hates it, hates the look in Peter’s eyes she woke to, knowing he was already blaming himself for not being fast enough, good enough. 

The kiss is short and sweet and ends with Peter’s forehead against her own. “It is not your fault, I was the one that jumped in front of that shot,” she whispers into lighter air, “but I forgive you,” and Peter nods. 

His next exhale is not as shaky, a little more reassured. 

There’s a wet spot on her shirt from his hair, a consistent buzzing reminding her that the shower is too warm for her, but she stays. She stays because she knows she can, knows she’s able and will do so as long as she can. 

Soon, they’ll have time to sit down and talk out what happened, learn to move forward. Peter will yell and she will shout, and they’ll go to sleep with shaky shoulders and intertwined hands. 

Rocket will keep Groot occupied, Mantis’ shoulders will stop shaking, and Drax will talk again. The Milano is quiet for now, though, and she is grateful. 

For now, she lets him change her bandages, press the barest hint of a kiss to her jawline. For now, she’ll wait until he’s back in the shower to strip gingerly and step inside the shower when his back is turned. She’ll press a kiss to his lower shoulder, ask about the song he was singing, and not think about the hours he spent by her bedside, praying desperately her implants would restart and work properly. 

She lets the lukewarm water run down her chest as Peter’s fingers massage into her hair, wash the oils and grime and guilt of the past three days down the drain. Gamora exhales quietly, leans back against the solid chest of their captain and her lover, and simply listens. 

After this, she’ll climb back into bed and let Peter tuck the blankets under her feet, watch as he props up the pillows under her head and stays to make sure she finishes the water packet. She’ll ask quietly for him to stay, and drift off to the warm weight of his arm across her stomach, hand splayed across her beating, whirring heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know in the last chapter i said the next ficlet would be a book au, but i got 4k into it and realized it wasn't going to work as only a drabble. so coming soon, a starmora great gatsby au! 
> 
> enjoy a sneak peek ;)
> 
>  
> 
> _"No," Nora says, almost sinking to her knees with grief. There's something building in her throat, screaming at her to mot say a thing, to keep her sister's lover secret, but to give up her own beloved is too much._  
>  She lifts her head, squares her chin, and resigns herself to a world where Mary is safe, even if Peter isn't.  
> "Leave Mavis alone, I'll give you everything on Peter."  
> As her father leans back, contemplating, her lungs tighten.  
> Thomas leans forward, a nasty grin setting the hair on the back of her neck on edge, and she realizes she's just made a pact with the devil. "Deal."
> 
>  
> 
> come yell with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/qvillsgamora) and [tumblr](http://nymphrea.tumblr.com/)


	5. i find the singularity and liberate myself with each breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He never even _thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by [reflecting light](http://www.metrolyrics.com/reflecting-light-lyrics-sam-phillips.html) by sam phillips, a conversation with alyssa at eight this morning, and the realization that if i want soft content for these two, i have to do it myself 
> 
> //cracks knuckles
> 
> title; [the magic path](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2582321/the-magic-path/) by akasha 
> 
> p.p.s - the "silver blush" used here is used with permission from [enigma731's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731) fic, [i'll stop the world for you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14193603). shoutout to her for letting me borrow the hc!

He never even _thought._

Standing there, he had watched her hold out her hand, fat drops rolling off her palm and down her arm until they disappeared under her sleeve, and leaned against the doorway. The _Quadrant’s_ ramp sank into the mud underneath them when they landed, and Mantis is already out in the downpour, hands towards the skies, tongue out to catch the water as Drax declares he is “too old” for this nonsense.

Then she had stepped fully into the rain, figure soaked in an instant, and he had felt a flash of panic as her spine tightened and even from behind, he watched as her breathing increased.

She had retreated, shaking, right past him and back into their quarters, and he sends Rocket a concerned look before taking off after her.

When he crawls into bed next to her, silent, underneath more blankets than he’s ever seen, after stepping over the soaked piles of her discarded clothes, she hadn’t said a thing. He had snuggled against her back, pliant, and waited for her to seek for his hand, lay his palm over her stomach in an embrace that has his dry, warm clothes pressing up against bare skin.

“I was back there,” she had whispered into the dark room, facing away from him, and he had nosed a strand of her hair aside to brush his lips against the nape of her neck. She hasn’t reacted, just snuggling closer, and he had kept silent, knowing if she needed to talk further she would and he would give her the space to do so.

Licking her lips, her voice carries. “I was there, in the throne room, cold and dark and wet, and he was silent and I-”

Her voice stutters to a stop, and he doesn’t push. Peter doesn’t know how much time passes in their dark quarters, in the air between their bodies and under the blankets until she stops shaking, stops trembling minutely against his chest. When she does, he traces her hip with his fingertip, asks if she wants him to start a shower, and her hair shifts on the pillow when she nods.

Swinging his legs over the side, he sends one more look at the outline beneath the covers before padding into the bathroom. The water is warm underneath his palm, so similar to the image from before of her, framed by the _Quadrant’s_ ramp, dripping down into her hair, and he strips and steps in without another word.

She’ll join him when she’s ready.

When he finally feels those of-so-familiar hands wrap around his waist, a head press to the dip between his shoulders, he doesn’t react. Unlike his arms, corded with muscle, hers are lean and strong in a different way, and he tilts his head to let the water run down his chin, tickling the hair on his chin he’s let grow slightly too long for comfort.

But Gamora has confessed her love of running her fingers through it, the slight burn when he kisses her hard in the shadowy corners of the _Quadrant_ and at the end of the day when they’re finally alone, so his razor sits on the ledge of the sink.

Behind him, Gamora’s right hand repeats a continuous movement of rubbing his hip, but it’s not sexual, not arousing, something comforting and reassuring. He turns halfway in her embrace to press a kiss to her forehead and at the touch she lets her eyes flutter close and he bends to kiss them too, soft brushes of lips against eyelids.

“Want me to wash your hair?” he murmurs, and she nods, switching places with him.

Without her heels, she fits underneath his chin nicely, shorter than she cares to admit compared to him, and when his hands work into her hair, lathered with the soap from their last touchdown on Xandar, she tilts her head back against his chest. The spray overhead is warm enough to make her flush, and when he looks down he sees the flash of silver across her abdomen he’s come to associate with affection and love.

She hums at the feeling of his fingertips working into her scalp, just enough pressure to feel like he’s washing away the memories, even though they know it’s not that easy. After this, she’ll slip a shirt of his over her head, climb into bed next to him, and he’ll trace circles onto her bicep as they lay in silence.

But for now, the steam curls around their naked bodies, pressed close, soap gathering where his palms come around her stomach as she washes out the suds. She moves forward to let the water spray onto her head and tilts it back as he bends to kiss her shoulder.

He doesn’t see her smile so much as feel it.

When every last bubble is free from her hair and hangs heavy and thick around her face, he allows her to run her fingers through his own hair. When she lightly tugs at his roots, fingers fashioning his curls into a mohawk, he laughs and watches a smile of her own tug at her lips.

He swoops in then, fingers at her hips, just strong enough to let her know what he wants but loose enough she can push away, but she doesn’t. Her lips taste like the steam fogging up the glass, separating them from the world, and he tilts his head and lets her in.

Afterwards, he pats himself dry and watches her scrunch up her hair, combing through it with her fingers, and her fingers leave a weeping streak when she drags her hand across the mirror. Hoisting herself up onto tiptoes, she leans forward to finish drying out the implant scars on her face, and he stands mesmerized when she catches a glimpse of him in the mirror and flushes silver again.

 “Beautiful,” he says coming up behind her to press a kiss to her cheek and in the small room, pressed close and their reflections watching, she pulls him down again.

When she pulls him down on top of her back in their room, clad only in plain underwear and an old shirt of his that’s been worn soft with her body, he cradles the back of her head in his palm and lets himself drown in her lips, the smell of her next to him, the feeling of her legs curling around the back of his own. The curve of her body outlined in the furs at the end of the bed, she moans quietly into his mouth, and he responds with hesitant, wandering fingers.

The movements don’t grow heated, staying soft and slow and languid, and he ends up on his side. They’re laying parallel, her hair pulled back in a braid he had done between kisses and caresses, and when he raises his arm to brush a curl off her forehead, she catches his hand and presses a kiss to the side of his wrist.

Peter’s palm is rough, calloused with years of wielding his blasters and hard work – while hers are not the opposite, her skin is softer still – and she winds her fingers around his wrist, turning his hand up and kissing the crisscrossing of scars. He watches, chest dipping and rising with the kind of deep breathes he takes when they’re together, a moment to simply breathe, and she works her way up until she claims his lips again.

This time, she tastes like salt and the side of his fingers brushes her cheek, flicking away the water there not left by the shower, and she pulls him to her chest, rolling over.

They quiet after that, the only sound Gamora’s heart against his ear and the slight rasp of his breathing, and it’s so quiet that when she whispers _thank you_ into the air above them, not even looking at him, it sounds almost too loud.

Unsurprisingly, Gamora falls asleep first, exhaustion of a different, non-physical type creeping into her bones. Peter smiles while he laces his fingers through hers, his heat against the chill of her hers – a monitored internal temperature, thanks to her implants – and drifts off to the curve of her lips moving in time with the very real, deep breathes her chest expels.


	6. counting out the ways i'm stuck on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you were the last Zehoberei-” her husband is saying as she drops his hand, begins to the fight through the crowd. There’s something prickling at her eyes, a hollow ache in her chest and she doesn’t hear Peter yell her name, start to weave his own way through the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still editing a small ficlet that's going to pour on the angst, so instead have a sneak peek of something i've been working on for a long time that's coming sooner than you think :)
> 
> tags; post-canon, married life, kid fic, found family

“Hey, uhh….Gamora?” 

She’s already turning at the sound of his voice, worried by the cautious timbers and he just nods to something in front of them. The planet they’re on is packed to the max, people on every corner and every inch of the ground is swarmed with aliens of all species. 

Recognizing a few before they disappear into the masses, she turns, squints. At first she doesn’t see anything but then there’s a break and she inhales so sharply she sees Peter, from the corner of her eye, start to fret. 

For there, in the middle of the street maybe ten feet from where they are, in front of a stand selling various Terran trinkets, is a young Zehoberei. The street is busy with hovers and crafts and people are yelling at her to move, but she just stumbles around, as if she can’t see. 

Around her eyes is red-rimmed and she holds a small toy to her chest, posture frozen and frightened as she begs for help. 

Whatever the name of this planet, she doesn’t remember in the moment, is famous for their orphan population. There had been a huge massacre a few years ago, one of the ones the Guardians had been called to help in, and despite the overwhelming amount of people living there now, most of the indigenous population is either dead or orphaned. 

“I thought you were the last Zehoberei-” her husband is saying as she drops his hand, begins to the fight through the crowd. There’s something prickling at her eyes, a hollow ache in her chest and she doesn’t hear Peter yell her name, start to weave his own way through the crowd. 

Gamora only has eyes for the little girl who had begun to cry, toy held closer until the head threatens to pop off. 

It’s been _decades_ since she’s seen a Zehoberei, the last time being when she was taken. She remembers very little from her planet; all she remembers is that they were happy, if hungry all the time. True, Thanos had fed her and gave her a bed but the very first time she had disappointed him on a mission, he had reminded her of her defenseless, broken planet. 

Years later, after she would escape his thumb and fall far only to rise again by a yellow glow, she would visit her planet only to find it demolished, his threat a truth. Peter would hold her close to his chest that night, rubbing circles into her back as they lay skin to skin, and she would fall asleep to tears and the steady beat of her husband’s heart. 

Shoving another person out of the way, ignoring their indignant cry, she sees a hover speeding down the street. It’s headed straight for the little girl and she’s crying again, louder this time, yelling for help and her mother and no one stops. 

Gamora takes off. 

The hover draws closer and she gains speed, eyes only on the girl. Her cybernetics whir behind her eyes and the little girl is frozen, mouth stretched wide in an incoming cry as the craft grows closer, engine roaring, and her world grows to a pinpoint in time. 

Gamora collides with the little girl and immediately tucks her inside her form as they roll. The concrete is rough against her skin but she barely registers it. On the street, the man in the hovercraft yells something but she doesn’t hear as they skid to a stop beside another stand. 

The crowd continues to flow around them, a few passerby’s halting briefly to see what the fuss is about before continuing on their way and she sits up. Her bones ache and she’s just unwrapping herself from around the girl when Peter bursts through the crowd. 

His eyes are wide, searching, until they fall on her. She smiles crookedly, Knowing he’s going to fuss over her cuts for the rest of the night though they’ll be gone in the morning thanks to the machine under her skin and he runs to her, falls to his knees. 

“You - you okay? I saw you take off and the hover and the little girl oh my god, Gamora, is she okay are you oka - “ she cuts him off by leaning in and resting her forehead against his and shifts to show Peter the trembling girl. 

“We’re both fine.” 

Peter sits back on his heels, runs a hand through his hair. In the sun from the planet, his red leather jacket, not unlike her own, shines and brings out the touches of grey and red in his own dirty blonde hair and in her arms, the little girl begins to whimper. 

Gamora sobers instantly, making light hushing sounds she clings to her. “Shh, it’s okay, I got you.” 

Her and Peter stay there she doesn’t know how long but when the Zehoberei girl stops shaking, she pulls back a little, enough to look down into a face unaffected by machinery. She doesn’t remember her mother other than a fleeting smile and warmth followed by screaming, but she wonders if her mother, if _she_ once looked like this. 

Peter’s the one that speaks up first, crouching as close as he can before the girl shrinks back in Gamora’s arms. “Hey there, little star, it’s okay. I’m Peter, and this is Gamora. Do you know where your family is?” 

The Zehoberei shakes her head, thumb in her mouth and Gamora smooths down her hair, smiling at Peter over her head. He looks up, smiles back, an understanding in his eyes and holds out his hand. “How would you like to come with us then? We have a nice, fluffy bed in our ship and plenty of food for growing girls.” 

He pokes at her stomach and a giggle bubbles from the Zehoberei’s belly. Gamora stands, the little girl still clinging to her, hair clenched in the fist not clutching the toy and containing the finger in her mouth and she turns, laces her free hand with Peter’s. 

“Whoa, babe, you’re bleeding.” 

The little girl against her hip doesn’t shift when Gamora looks down at her arms and notes that she, in fact, bleeding. There’s a patchwork of cuts of various depths and lengths etched into her skin and it’s only when Peter’s thumb brushes over a deep one on her forehead that she notices the stinging. 

An hour later, they’re back at the Milano. After going their (very close) separate ways, Rocket had won the Bentant in the last game of cards so Gamora proposed they build their _own_ ship and name it after the one they’d wrecked so badly. 

A year later, the Milano had been up and running, more high-tech than anything either had ever ridden in but not so over-the-top that they’d be devastated and broke if it was totaled. As they climb the stairs, Peter’s thankful he had the foresight to put in more than one bed in case the Guardians ever dropped by. 

By the way the Zehoberei is clinging to his wife, she might be with them awhile. 

He’s okay with that. 

See, Peter’s wanted kids since they got married two years ago, but had respected Gamora didn’t want any from _her._ Terrified beyond belief that she would be an awful mother because of Thanos, she swore off having kids and Peter agreed that was fair and that in their own time, they could adopt if she wanted. 

By the longing and excited looks Peter’s been giving the little girl in Gamora’s arms - not incredibly inconspicuous but when is her husband ever been - she thinks it might not be so bad. While she’s hesitant about her potential role as a parent she knows Peter will be a great father and she hates depriving him of the opportunity because of her own experiences. 

But he understands, and she loves him, and everything is alright. 

Her footsteps are quiet on the metal and she knows time is limited before Peter finally does something with that worried look on his face and forces her to sit down so he can clean and bandage her cuts. In her arms, curled against her neck, the little Zehoberei girl is sound asleep and doesn’t even stir when Gamora sets her down on their bed. 

She brushes back her knotted hair, smiling softly at the girl’s smooth face in sleep and from the doorway, Peter smiles. Despite her constant insistence that she wouldn’t be a good parent, deprived from maternal instincts at such a young age, there’s a softness in her eyes whenever she used to smile at Groot and now that same warmth is present. 

Gamora doesn’t start when Peter steps into their room, despite his quiet footfalls. After living so long on the same ship, she’s come to recognize the small things; his breathing, the dull and almost unheard thumping he’s picked up from her, so different from his stomping from before. 

She sits on the side of the bed, legs hanging off and he sets a hand on her shoulder as she pulls the blanket up over the sleeping Zehoberei. For a minute, all they do is watch the rise and fall of her form before her husband squeezes her shoulder slightly. 

“I got the medkit, and before you protest I _know_ your implants will heal them but I’d feel better if I could look at them first.” 

She looks up Peter, nodding before reaching for the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head after shrugging out of her jacket. The cuts from the concrete cover mostly her arms and face, the rest of her body covered by the trusty red leather she lays beside her and Peter kneels. 

She knows then how shaken he is. Despite them being married for two years and knowing each other for plenty more, Peter still gets immature when it comes to her body. Usually when she needs to be patched up, he’ll wink or whistle and she’ll roll her eyes and remove whatever garments are in the way. 

He works in silence, patting the cuts with chemicals to clean them and rips open bandage package after another to cover them and she’s quiet the entire time, the only sound between them his breathing. 

Peter breaks it first, eyes still fixated on his work as his fingers fly but she recognizes the bow of his spine, how obviously he’s avoiding her gaze. 

“I was so worried, ‘Mora, you just jumped in front of that hover and it _didn’t stop -"_

Gamora sighs, reaching her free hand up to cup his chin and command his gaze. “Peter.” 

He looks up at his name, guided by her hand and she sees the hope shimmering just beneath the tears. Something in her chest aches that isn’t connected to the cuts on her skin and for a split second, feels guilty. 

He doesn’t stop. 

She knows how sensitive Peter is to his team - especially her - getting hurt. They’re all he has; mother and father and Yondu and grandfather gone and even though there’s a little girl on their bed alive and sleeping happily because she put her life on the line, she feels awful for scaring him. 

“ - and I know you can take care of yourself and I _knew_ you’d be okay, logically, because you’re badass, but the hover wasn’t stopping and I can’t run as fast as you - “ 

She draws him into a hug, him still kneeling and her bent over and he sags into her warmth. Tentatively, his arms come around to hold her close and on the bed, the little girl snorts in her sleep. _I thought I was going to lose you,_ he whispers into her skin and she almost cries. 

She doesn’t know how long they’re there but her back begins to ache and she’s sure his knees are too from the metal but neither say a word. 

It’s her that finally breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry for scaring you, Peter. It was not my intention and all common sense went out the window when I saw her in the street.” Against her, his chest shudders and she strokes a hand through his faintly curly hair, knowing how much the simple touch means to him. 

“I never thought I’d see another Zehoberei again. I thought I,” she almost chokes on her own words, remembering Thanos and that day and the screams, “was the last one.” 

Peter is quiet in her arms and for a few minutes, they stay like that. Then, voice muffled by her bare skin, “You know what this means, right?” 

She nods, looks back at the little girl on the bed yet again. She’s scared to death that if she looks away for too long, she’ll disappear and she’ll wake and find this is all a dream where she really is the last surviving Zehoberei. 

“That I may not be the last one.”


	7. please, just tell me you're alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I miss playing the piano.”
> 
> Gamora lifts her head from the book, pressing a fingertip between the pages and looks at the man on the bed quizzically. With his leg propped up on a pillow and freshly wrapped with bandages, Peter is staring up at the ceiling. 
> 
> “What?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heavily inspired by before you exit's [clouds](https://genius.com/Before-you-exit-clouds-lyrics). everything about this song; the lyrics, the tone, the background music, just gave me such peter and meredith vibes. if there's something i hope we get more of in vol3, it's flashbacks to them because i miss this mother-son duo who deserved so much better.
> 
> i strongly recommend listening to the [song itself](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzgU3_L0ris) as you read this because i had it on repeat as i wrote. the somber, slightly optimistic atmosphere brings something to the writing i wish i could capture.

“I miss playing the piano.” 

Gamora lifts her head from the book, pressing a fingertip between the pages and looks at the man on the bed quizzically. With his leg propped up on a pillow and freshly wrapped with bandages, Peter is staring up at the ceiling. 

“What?” 

When he sighs, his chest caves inwardly and she clucks her tongue. “Back on Earth, Mom taught me to play a musical instrument and we would always play it together. I-“ his voice grows rough for a moment, “-miss that sometimes.” 

She sets the book down and takes the few steps to their bed. Sliding onto the covers, her palm comes to massage his bicep laid across the blankets and they’re both quiet for a few moments. Right now, Peter’s floating off somewhere in his own head with the pain meds for the plasma blast to his calf, and it’s common for him to start talking about his mother when he retreats to the back of his mind with half-delirium. 

“Tell me about her,” Gamora whispers, and Peter talks in a raspy voice until he dozes off. 

Throughout his rambling, she cards fingers through his dust and sweat-matted hair, and when his eyelids start to droop, he reaches for her, fingertips curling in want. She smiles softly, sheds her belt and boots and slides her socked feet against his good leg. 

Sometime after the lights dim for the night but before Peter falls asleep, she tucks her head into his ribs, wraps a finger around his curl and licks her lips. “Would you go back, if you could?” she says, and Peter barely shifts underneath her. 

It’s quiet again, and the silence is stiffening for almost a minute until she feels his fingers combing through the vibrant ends of her own hair. Under her ear, his chest rumbles with the words. 

“No,” he says, tone distant with sleep but still insistent and she lifts her head. Peter smiles back at her in the way that says he probably won’t remember any of this when he wakes up next. “I wouldn’t trade _this_ ,” he gestures to the ship around them, “or _this_ ”, he gestures to the space (or lack thereof) between them, “for the world.” 

“I love you, ‘Mora,” he murmurs, already fading. 

She leans up to press a kiss to his chin. 

“Sleep, love,” she smiles back, and he nods as his eyelids slide close. 

Underneath her cheekbone, his chest undulates with deep breaths and she snuggles closer, leaning briefly down to bring the blanket over both of them. The movement causes him to shift and Gamora just smooths a hand over his shirt. 

The edges of the navy shirt are charred from the blast that injured him in the field, and she whispers “I’m here,” and he stops moving. There’s a steady beat protected by his fragile human ribs, and she rubs circles into the planes of his chest. 

The hazy lights of the _Benetar_ casting shadows across their intertwined bodies, Gamora lets herself be pulled under my Peter’s warm arm around her shoulder and the beat of his life under her palm.

 

.

 

“Where did you find this?” he hoarsely whispers, leaning heavily on the crutch, and she smiles proudly. It’s a few weeks later, and Peter traces a single fingertip over the dusty, chipped wood. 

“In the back of a junker shop on Contraxia,” she says, leaving him to circle the hunk of wood the shopowner had insisted, was in fact a _piano_ when she found it underneath a few hunks of dented metal and a broken spear without a head. 

“This is a piano, right?” 

Peter huffs a laugh, voice carrying a hint of nostalgia and something akin to mourning. “Yeah, babe, it certainly is.” 

She nods. “I am glad, then. Are you alright?” 

Silence. He flattens his palm on the wood, limps to the other side, and the look in his eyes is distant, as if reliving the past. Even all this time later he still has to walk with aid, and if she can get him to continue the exercises, he’ll be able to walk without a limp. 

“Peter?” 

His gaze snaps up, as if he didn’t hear her the first time. “Yeah?” 

She crosses to where he is, where his gaze has already dropped to the piano again. “I said is this okay? Are you angry with me?” 

Eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion, he turns to her. “Why would I be mad?” he says, grasping at her elbows and she shrugs. 

“I know how much you missed your mother and I thought that getting you this musical instrument would remind you of those happy times you had together.” She rubs her forehead. “But if I read the situation wrong and you are cross with me, I understand. Should I return it-” 

“No!” Peter exclaims, and she blinks up at him. 

He growls in frustration, dropping a hand to the wood again. “No,” he repeats. “I’m sorry for yelling.” 

She’s quiet. 

“I just,” his voice hesitates, “I miss her and it hurts a lot, but I’m not mad, I promise.” 

Reaching for her hands, he brings them to his face. Fingers encircling her wrists, he kisses the palm of each before moving around her and pulling her after him. 

“Would you like a demonstration?” he smiles softly, sliding stiffly onto the bench and discarding the crutch, and she blinks before smiling back. 

“I would like that very much.” 

Peter’s returning smile makes her heart flutter, so radiant and more full of life than she’s seen him in _weeks,_ and she reminds herself to return to that junker shop and tell the shopowner she will not remove their fingers from their hands. 

Because this is a piano, and he is happy. 

The first touch to the keys is grinding, years worth of dust and things she has no clue coating the strings, but Peter’s breath stutters. She lays a hand over his, silent, supporting, and he sends her a gracious, watery smile before laying his fingers across the off-white keys and pushing down. 

It is not music she has heard before, but his stiff fingers eventually loosen and she finds herself leaning into his side, watching the dance of his hands. Rough from emotion, his voice is not the prettiest, but she finds she loves it just as much when he murmurs words into the air around them, brimming with melody she thinks she will learn to love. 

Later, in bed, Peter wraps both arms around her and pulls her close in the darkness. Gamora comes willingly, and when he kisses both cheeks and whispers _thank you_ against the curve of her neck, she flips them over carefully and rests his head against her sternum. 

 _For you, anything,_ she whispers back, and she doesn’t know about Peter but she knows she falls asleep thinking of the words he’d sung in the storage of their ship, the musical instrument pushed against the wall, the callouses on his fingers she no longer thinks came solely from wielding a blaster. 

Wrapping her arms around his chest and breathing in the scent that is uniquely and fantastically Peter, she repeats the words over and over in her mind, tumbling and rolling until her thoughts grow heavy with sleep. 

_And you jumped on a flight in the darkest of blues, took a trip to paradise through the stars and back over the moon.  
_

_Oh, tell me it's true, oh._

_Are you way up in the sky?_

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come yell with me about these two and how they deserved better on my twitter, @qvillsgamora
> 
> note: updates will be spontaneous and range from a few hundred to a few thousand words, depending on how i'm feeling. if requested, some may be expanded into more completed stories but for now, they're just ficlets without a home i thought deserved one.


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